


Time Forgotten

by tellywhich



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Drama & Romance, Established Relationship, Feels, Future Fic, Inspired by Twitter, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, No Smut, TFP never happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 05:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11052492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tellywhich/pseuds/tellywhich
Summary: John's 58th birthday rolls around at a particularly challenging time in his life. Fortunately for him, he's got a sweet and exceedingly attentive partner waiting for him at home, not to mention a brilliant, occasionally exasperating, but always lovable teenage daughter...





	Time Forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you to my wonderful beta, [PsychGirl aka snycock](http://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/pseuds/PsychGirl). I deeply value your input and appreciate your camaraderie in the writing life.
> 
> Some background info:
> 
> This fic was inspired by events from the Twitterverse storyline, an exciting and epic adventure told via tweets from @ContactSH and @contactJHW. If you haven't been following them on Twitter already, you can find their accounts here: <https://twitter.com/ContactSH> and <https://twitter.com/contactJHW>.
> 
> Please note: @ContactSH officially declared that the Twitter accounts are not affiliated with the BBC.
> 
> On John's birthday this year, Sherlock made him a public Spotify playlist and posted it on Twitter. The playlist features the song _Time Forgotten_ by Brian Crain. Originally, I envisioned this fic as an animated film, but since producing such a piece of work is far, far outside of my skillset, I wrote this story, instead. I listened to _Time Forgotten_ a lot while writing, and it is my hope that I captured some of the essence of the music in my words.
> 
> On Spotify, Sherlock's handle is “ContactSH” and the playlist is called “For John.” If you don't have Spotify, you can listen to the song on [Youtube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z0mXhFFWptE).
> 
> This story was also hugely influenced by the band Austra. Specifically, the last four songs on their album _Olympia_ , which are _Reconcile, Annie (Oh muse, you), You Changed My Life_ , and _Hurt Me Now_.

I pause at the corner of Baker and Melcombe and stare down the street to the familiar stoop. Next door, the red awning belonging to Speedy's Cafe waves idly in the breeze. It's probably too early to go back, but I'm cold. My shoulder aches. My leg is hurting. I should have worn a jumper underneath my coat, at the very least, but I hate being weighed down by unnecessary gear.

I spent the whole day out and about, celebrating my birthday by wandering anywhere I damn well pleased. No agenda, no schedule, no rush. And alone, at my request. I shouldn't have waited until this morning to spring that on Sherlock. It seemed as if he expected it, though, and there was no argument. But I spent the rest of the morning surrounded by a quiet tension that never resolved, even when he offered to make a special birthday tea.

I glance at my watch, then my mobile. 5:36 pm. No messages. A man rushes past, nearly bowling me over shoulder-to-shoulder as he waves down a cab, and suddenly, the world seems too loud. I realize that I actually _want_ to go home. That I would rather be there more than anywhere else. The persistent sadness that has been nibbling at the edges of my thoughts lifts a little. I'm still raw and hesitant from the last few months, the rough patch that Sherlock and I barely survived. But never in my mind could I imagine leaving for good. I just needed a break. Everyone needs a break, after a certain amount of time. Now, though, a fresh urgency is pushing me down the street. All the time we've spent apart recently seems like wasted time, like I was missing the point.

My fingers fumble with the keys, and I pause to steady myself against the front door before stepping inside. Mrs. Hudson's door is closed, which is a relief. We already had coffee this morning, when she dropped off a plate of my favorite tarts. This time, though, I'm not prepared, my brave front collapsing as I approach the stairs. If Mrs. Hudson saw me now – if any of them did, actually – they would know for sure that I'm still not okay. And just once, just once, I want to be free to have my feelings without having to explain them.

I slump down onto the bottom step, burying my face in my hands. The scent of garlic and tomato sauce fills the air, the sound of clanking pots and pans sparking a dull ache in my chest. _Home._ It's so good to be home. How could I ever have lost sight of that? I think of all the times I climbed these stairs, taking my life for granted. Taking Sherlock for granted. I've forgotten most of the little details, really. There is just a rushing stream of images and feelings, like a waterfall tumbling down the stairs around me.

I snap out of my reverie at the sound of Sherlock's voice, raised to the common volume used to communicate with Rosie these days.

“ _ROSAMUND!_ Tea's ready!”

The bass beats emanating from the top floor get louder for a second, and then shut off rapidly.

“I SAID I'M COMING!”

“YOU SAID THAT FOUR MINUTES AGO! YOU'RE FOUR MINUTES AND FIFTY-FIVE SECONDS LATE!”

Sherlock would hate to hear it, but he is sounding more like his Mum every day. I finish climbing the stairs, wandering into the kitchen just in time to see him putting the finishing touches on a bowl of spaghetti carbonara. He looks pleased to see me, his lips curling smugly. He probably deduced my exact time of arrival before I even left the house that morning.

“Happy Birthday, Dad.” Rosie stomps into the kitchen in her giant boots and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I squeeze her shoulder affectionately in return, noting her freshly dyed hair, dark purple this time. Her wrists are covered in gold and silver leather bands, her newest hobby. She takes to her art projects with the same intensity that Sherlock takes to his work. There are still some paint smudges on her fingers. I watch her pretend to take a swig of wine directly from the bottle, Sherlock swatting her away. She laughs and sits down at the table, reaching for the serving spoon.

“John goes first today,” Sherlock says, and she freezes, her hand hovering above the spoon handle.

“Hurry up and sit down, then, Dad,” she protests.

I consider dragging out the moment, but decide against it. The tension is still there, expertly smoothed over by Rosie and her abrasive sense of humor. I settle into my chair, watching as Sherlock pours out two glasses of red wine and puts one in front of me with a flourish. I can see the wheels turning, the deductions running behind his eyes. We stare at each other a moment longer, and then Sherlock gives an almost imperceptible sigh and settles into his chair across from me. They are both staring at me expectantly, and I feel helpless in the face of all the emotions that are trying to come up at once.

“Right.” I avoid meeting anyone's eyes and serve myself a hearty scoop of spaghetti. “This looks delicious.”

“I hope it is,” Sherlock answers, strangely humble. I watch him take a nervous gulp of wine, noting that he is wearing his best suit, despite having been the cook. Of course, the grey silk shirt is still flawless underneath the old, faded “Kiss the Cook” apron. He's taken to wearing his hair shorter these last few years, which I used to love to complain about. Not enough curls to tangle my fingers in, not enough hair to pull. He's started greying at the temples, his dark hair fading to salt and pepper strands, but because it's Sherlock, he only manages to look more distinguished and gorgeous.

They wait to begin serving themselves until I start eating, an odd formality that I find vaguely annoying. I start to chide Rosie for loudly scraping the flatware against the porcelain as she shovels food into her mouth, but stop myself before the words come out of my mouth. I'm not actually annoyed, I realize. I'm touched by their love and attention, and just don't want to admit it. After all these years, all the work I've put in, there's still the urge to act churlish when I feel the most vulnerable.

We don't usually chat over tea. Rosie is too focused on eating, Sherlock too focused on his work. Tonight is no exception. Well, except that Sherlock is actually eating a full plate of food. He's almost drained his first glass of red wine. And he's watching me closely, all of his powers of observation focused uncomfortably on me.

I reach for my wine glass, taking a sip, and our eyes meet over the rim. I tense, preparing myself for what is bound to be the start of an epic row, but Sherlock just winks and leans back, flaunting the “Kiss the Cook” apron.

“Kiss the cook?” I ask, putting my glass down too quickly.

“That's what it says,” Sherlock replies.

“Please try to remember I'm still here,” Rosie interjects around a mouthful of food.

She seems even more edgy than usual tonight, which brings on that old guilt. Sherlock does a much better job of maintaining a stable home life for her. It's all I can do to hang on for the ride and provide support as best as I can. No one would have guessed that I am the more wildly emotional of the two parents. That's the problem with trying to keep everything well under control. The pressure builds until something has to give.

Sherlock gives Rosie a pointed look and walks around the table to stand next to me. I crane my neck to meet his eyes, caught by surprise. We haven't been this...demonstrative...in ages.

“Well, all right. Come here, then.” I reach up to place a hand on his collarbone, where the apron strap meets his lapel, and he bends to meet me, our lips pressing together gently. The touch sends fireworks through my body, feelings I'd been pushing aside for months bobbing to the surface. It seems strange now that I'd ever chosen to step back, but perhaps that's what I needed. So that I could be reminded of how good it could be.

“Ugh! _Dads_ ,” Rosie scoffs, and when we still don't break apart, she pushes back from the table and stands up in a huff. “I'll be in the sitting room. When you're done snogging.”

Sherlock breaks the kiss. “Don't let this be an excuse to conveniently forget our agreement about the dishes.” There's a mischievous smile on his face.

“I _won't_!” Rosie yells back. “But _hurry up_!”

We wait a moment, and when Rosie doesn't reappear, Sherlock stares down at me, the smile melting from his face. “Are we okay?”

“Of course we are.” I thought he would be angry. But he's not. He's worried. I've been a complete idiot.

“You thought I'd protest your spending the day alone.” Sherlock braces himself against the chair and table, leaning into my face earnestly. “John, I know how important it was to you, to have a free day to do whatever you wanted to do. I wouldn't start a row on your birthday. Not over this. I'm not _that_ much of a drama queen.”

He's hurt. I can see it in his eyes, though he's trying to hide it. I've been so preoccupied with keeping myself together that I never noticed how much Sherlock was doing the same thing. I shake my head, unable to put words to my feelings. Sherlock starts to step away, and I stand up, reaching for him, pushing him back against the counter. His eyes widen with surprise, and then I'm kissing him again, more urgently, trying to show him what I can't say. Just as my hands ball into fists, gathering the fabric of his suit jacket, he pulls away, panting. “Rosie-”

“Yes,” I agree with a groan, though my body is saying another thing. “We shouldn't get carried away. I can wait.” I grimace and shift the crotch of my jeans. “I think.”

Sherlock touches my lips with the tip of his index finger. “I meant that Rosie and I have a gift for you. We should really go out to the sitting room before she has a melt down. We've been planning this for months.”

I raise my eyebrows, the dull ache in my heart returning with a vengeance. “Have you really?”

Sherlock steps back and removes the apron in one graceful movement. “Give us a moment. We'll call when we're ready.” He spins on his heel and tosses the apron across the back of one of the chairs, disappearing into the sitting room.

I take this opportunity to inspect my situation, shifting my jeans again, pulling the front of my oxford as low as it will go. I can hear murmured conversation coming from the other room, and the sound of furniture being moved around. Rosie appears momentarily to fetch my armchair, dragging it out of view. I shiver at the single plink of a piano key, the quiet thrum of a violin string.

“Dad!” Rosie yells, her voice overflowing with excitement. “We're ready!”

 

I walk into the sitting room, my heart beating fast. I'm grateful for the simple comforts of home, the old armchair, the ugly wallpaper. Sherlock and I are both creatures of habit, except for where the playpen used to be, and later the toy box, there is now an upright piano. It was an idea of Sherlock's, and Rosie took to it almost immediately.

The couch and coffee table have been shifted away from the wall and pushed back against the windows. My chair is positioned in the middle of that empty spot, angled so that I can see Rosie's profile, and her hands, as she sits down at the piano. Sherlock is leaning against the end of the piano, his violin dangling casually in his long fingers. Our eyes meet and he gives me a small vulnerable smile. I smile back, swallowing the sudden lump in my throat, and settle into my armchair, shifting the pillow behind my back for better support.

Sherlock tenses and turns to look at Rosie. She is shifting on the bench, her hands fluttering to the hem of her shirt, adjusting the leather bands on her wrists. She looks up and meets Sherlock's eyes.

“Deep breath,” Sherlock prompts quietly, lifting the violin to his chin. “I'm ready when you are, Rosie Rose.”

Rosie nods and closes her eyes, going still. Her shoulders straighten as she takes a breath. I settle deeper into my chair, crossing one ankle over my knee. Rosie opens her eyes, looking nervously at Sherlock one more time. He gives her a reassuring smile, and she raises her hands over the keys and begins to play.

The music tears into me, breaking my heart open. I recognize it immediately. It's _Time Forgotten_. The piano and violin duet from the first playlist Sherlock ever made for me. When we were still so new to each other. Memories crowd into my mind, summoned forth by the music.

I remember.

_Sherlock holding Rosie for the first time, the funny smile on his face, her fascinated stare._

 

_Sherlock dancing barefoot in the kitchen to Frank Sinatra, his dressing gown flapping around his legs._

 

_Rosie's first steps, the look of determination on her face as she staggered towards me, Sherlock hovering in the background, ecstatic._

 

_Sherlock in his best suit, a boutonniere of foxglove and belladonna pinned to his lapel._

 

_Sherlock's arms around me, guiding me as we danced around the sitting room. The look on his face when I kept trying to lead, even though I didn't know the steps._

 

_Sherlock falling from the roof at St. Bart's. The horror. The shock. The way I knew I was utterly, completely lost when I felt for his pulse and there was nothing...nothing..._

 

I blink back to the present moment, my stomach churning. Sherlock's eyes are closed. He's lost in the music. Rosie is still nervous, her shoulders hunched up slightly. I feel as if I'm about to burst into tears. Grief and gratitude fight for dominance inside of my chest. Rosie plays faster, unconsciously picking up my distress, and Sherlock shifts, drawing her attention, helping her refocus on the rhythm.

I work on slowing my breathing down, pausing between breaths. Really, I couldn't have asked for anything better for my life. I can't even believe this is my life, hard times and all. It was harder before, when I thought all I had left was Rosie. It would have been even harder if I never took that last step into Sherlock's arms. Then _and_ now. I sigh, the crush of emotions receding, and Rosie relaxes, too, her eyes half-closing. Sherlock turns towards her, and they pause together, drawing out the silence between stanzas. I can almost hear my heartbeat echoing through the room. Rosie's fingers touch the keys again.

I remember.

_Mary, dying, in the aquarium, the strange look in her eyes that I will never forget._

 

_The first time I saw Sherlock. The pipet in his hands. Our fingers touching as I handed my mobile over. Sherlock's wink as he walked out the door. The way I knew, without a doubt, that I would be moving in with this bizarre man, and that my life would never be the same again._

 

_Sherlock disguised as a waiter, barely able to contain his excitement. The fury and agony that I felt when I realized it was really him. The way I wanted to hug him and kiss him and hit him all at the same time. And the way Mary watched us with an unsettling eagerness in her eyes._

 

_The sunlight filtering through the windows of our bedroom, glinting off of Sherlock's mussed-up morning curls. His sleepy smile. His demanding fingers drawing me closer._

 

_The seemingly endless arguments with Rosie. Her flushed, tear-stained face. The way she whirled away and barreled into Sherlock's arms for comfort after Mean Dad said “No.”_

 

_Sherlock's smile as he flipped the ashtray from Buckingham Palace in his fingers on the cab ride home._

 

_That row to end all rows, when I thought that I would be forced to leave for good..._

 

_...and the way we made up afterward, with lips and hands and mouths, eager and grasping, stumbling to the couch, then to the bedroom, skipping tea, skipping sleep, reclaiming each other._

 

_The look on Mary's face when Mycroft turned the plane around, bringing Sherlock back to me. The turmoil I felt and hoped that she couldn't sense._

 

_Rosie's first drawings on the wall by the sitting room door, done in pencil, and then later, when her fingers were strong enough, in spray paint on the wallpaper._

 

I glance up at the ugly wallpaper. Above me, there are four smiley faces. Two added by Rosie when she was ten. One for her and one for Mean Dad, my most prolific alter ego. Mean Dad is frowning. Rosie's smiley is laughing, eyes curved up, mouth open. She added a second smiley face for me a couple of years later. Happy Dad. This one has heart eyes and a giant toothy grin. The music summons me back.

I remember.

_Rosie laughing so hard when we first noticed 'Happy Dad' on the wall. My attempt to maintain a stern glare undermined by her sheer exuberance. Sherlock's rare burst of full-bellied laughter._

 

_The look on Rosie's face when I told her the truth about her mother, when I realized that at sixteen, she was far too clever and too perceptive to be satisfied with the small things she already knew._

 

_Mary's DVDs that taunted us from beyond the grave, pushed Sherlock to the edge, made everything hurt worse that it already did._

 

_The first night Sherlock and I spent together, drunk on wine..._

 

_...the way I flirted mercilessly, licking my lips, without thinking ahead to what I actually wanted, without wanting to really face it, pushing Sherlock more and more, both of us growing reckless as the night wore on..._

 

_...and Sherlock finally breaking, lunging over the coffee table, scattering the Cluedo board and pieces onto the floor to crawl onto the couch next to me..._

 

_...our faces so close that I could feel Sherlock's breath on my lips, could see the longing and doubt and fear in his eyes. Could finally admit that this is what I'd been waiting for all along._

 

_My mouth fit over Sherlock's perfectly. Of course it did..._

 

_...and Sherlock's answering kiss was full of perfect urgency, our movements together so graceful and rough at the same time..._

 

The duet ends and I open my eyes. I hadn't even noticed when I closed them. Rosie is quiet, hands in her lap, her head bowed. Sherlock is leaning against the piano, watching me, a hesitant, bittersweet smile on his face. _We still have so much to learn about each other._ Rosie turns to look at me and my shoulders crumple as I cover my face, unable to hold myself together any longer. Suddenly they are both there, arms wrapped around me.

Rosie pats my back and neck sweetly, all the sharp edges of her teenage angst melting away as she climbs into the chair with me and wraps her arms around my neck, hugging me fiercely. “I love you, Daddy. Happy Birthday.”

“I love you, too, Rosie Rose,” I manage to gasp, wiping my eyes with the heel of my hand.

Sherlock is perched on the armrest, hugging us both, his cheek pressed to the top of my head. I can feel his body shaking. I reach up to squeeze both their arms, my daughter and the love of my life. My heart is so full that it could be bigger than this room, bigger than all of London.

I can still only speak in a whisper. “This is the best birthday I've ever had. You're absolutely brilliant. Both of you!”

Rosie pulls away to give me a shy grin. “Thanks, Dad. We've been practicing for months. Oh, I wanted to tell you so many times.”

Sherlock chuckles, his mouth pressed against my hair. “So did I.”

“But it was worth it,” Rosie adds. “The wait was worth it.”

“Yes,” I agree, squeezing Sherlock's arm. “The wait was most definitely worth it.”

Rosie leans back, already shifting back to her usual self. “Can I eat one of those tarts Hudders made?”

“What? Already?” I shake my head. “Bottomless pit, you are. I'm still full from that lovely dinner.”

“Fine. I can wait...Mean Dad.”

“Oh, I'm Mean Dad again?” I can feel Sherlock raise his head, probably giving Rosie a look.

She giggles. “Fine. You're not Mean Dad. You're the best dad _in the world_.”

“Thank you, sweetie, but no need to exaggerate.”

“I'm not!” Rosie scoffs, giving me another hug. The doorbell rings, and she springs out of the chair. “Oh! That must be Jolene!” She gives Sherlock a pleading look. “I won't have time do to the dishes!”

I can feel Sherlock trying not to laugh, his torso quivering with the effort. I glance up, smiling at the mock exasperated look he's giving our daughter.

“You planned it this way, didn't you, Miss Rose?” Sherlock grumbles.

“I did _not_!” Rosie protests. “It's not _my_ fault you two took so much time snogging in the kitchen.” She is starting to work herself up to a frenzy. “You seriously don't expect me to wash the dishes while you're doing _that_ , do you? It's not-”

“Calm down, Rosie.” I put a soothing hand on her arm. “It's fine. Go on.”

She gives me a tortured look.

“It's really fine, love,” Sherlock adds, rolling his eyes. “I was just teasing you.”

She breaks into an ecstatic grin. “Awesome. Well, I did all my other chores already, anyway.”

When she leaves the sitting room, I look back at Sherlock, feeling very much like it's the first time we laid eyes on each other. My stomach is twisted in knots. There's that weird fluttering in my chest, the shortness of breath.

“Jolene's here?” I ask.

“Rosie's going for a sleepover,” Sherlock replies, blinking innocently.

I can't keep the grin off my face. “You clever man.”

Sherlock slides down into my lap. “Happy Birthday, John,” he breathes, peppering my jaw, my ear, my face with kisses before taking my mouth, nipping my bottom lip gently. “And many happy returns.”

I can barely kiss him back, I'm so overwhelmed by his sweet affections. I draw away at the sound of Rosie's boots stomping back up the stairs, followed by Jolene's lighter tread.

“Oi, looks like _you're_ getting out just in time,” Jolene says to Rosie as she walks past the sitting room.

“Ugh, shut it,” Rosie snaps. “Come upstairs and have a look at the new bracelets I made.”

“Hullo, Jolene...” I clear my throat self-consciously, tilting my head away from Sherlock's attentions. “Give our regards to your mum, will you?”

“Aye,” Jolene pipes back, already halfway up the stairs. “We'll get out of your way soon enough, if you can wait that long.”

“ _Jolene!_ ” Rosie shrieks from upstairs. “You're utterly _shameless._ Stop talking!”

“Dear Lord,” I mutter. “Why, of all of Rosie's friends, did it have to be Jolene? She has no filter.”

Sherlock sighs and slides off of my lap, moving to sit on the couch. I really didn't mean to push him away, but public displays of affection are not my strong suit. I feel like I should say something, though I don't quite know what.

There's an awkward pause, and I clear my throat. “I need a cuppa. Want one?”

Sherlock nods curtly, lacing his fingers together across his stomach and settling back against the cushions.

Rosie and Jolene come wheeling back down the stairs while I'm in the kitchen fetching the mugs and putting the kettle on.

“Bye Daddy!” Rosie lunges and plants a kiss on my cheek. “Happy Birthday! I'll be back tomorrow probably around half noon. We're going to the cinema tonight, and then brekkie tomorrow at some place Jolene's mum just found. Have a good night! Love you!” She pats my arm and races into the sitting room, overnight bag in tow. “Bye Dad! The duet was beautiful! I wish we could play it for Jolene but her mum's driving round the block cuz she didn't want to park. We have to hurry. Love you! Byeeee!”

And then she's off, racing down the stairs, Jolene tagging along behind her. A moment later, the front door slams behind them, and I pause until I hear the sound of the key in the lock. It occurs to me, as I wait impatiently for the kettle to boil, that I don't really want tea. Now that I'm alone in the flat with Sherlock, there's only one thing I want.

 

I abandon the kettle and head back to the sitting room, pausing mid-stride when I catch the melancholy look on Sherlock's face. “What is it?”

Sherlock gives me a speculative glance. “No tea?”

“Sherlock-” I begin, but it looks like he might start crying, so I rush over to sit next to him on the couch.

He just looks at me a moment, his face impassive, and then swallows hard and touches my arm gently. “Don't hurt me now, John. Let's just have this night. It's been a good one so far. We can talk tomorrow.”

“Talk about what, exactly?” I ask, my voice breaking. I clench my fists, trying to hold on when everything inside of me just wants to come pouring out.

Sherlock closes his eyes. “We both know this is a normal part of successful long-term relationships. The transitional stage. We've done it before. Stepping back, evaluating, and deciding whether to recommit...or move on.”

“I'm still not leaving you, Sherlock.” My voice sounds strangled in my ears, panic closing my throat.

“I still know I'm not the easiest person to live with.”

“As if I'm any better,” I whisper harshly.

Sherlock meets my eyes, his expression wary. “You were remembering. During the duet. I thought it would bring back good memories, but I was wrong, wasn't I?”

I flinch, my throat burning. “I had both. Good and bad.” Sherlock looks away, and I take a deep breath. “Please look at me.” He doesn't, and I lean forward urgently, my hand moving to cup his jaw. “ _Please_. Look at me.” Sherlock meets my eyes, and it hurts so much, but I don't even let myself blink. I can't falter now. My voice cracks with tension. “Sherlock, I still feel like the luckiest man alive. That I get to be here with you. You changed my life for the best.”

Sherlock blinks, and I can tell he's trying to absorb the words, but his expression is still pained, still guarded. “Well,” he shrugs. “It hasn't been boring, at least. But surely it would have been better-”

“Stop it,” I hiss, moving closer. Sherlock's breathing goes shallow as I straddle him, letting my weight settle slowly into his lap. We stare at each other, and his hands glide up my quads, fingers digging into my hips. I feel like I might catch fire just from the sensation. A strange mix of anger, sadness, fear, and desire pounds through me. “You _know_ I'd not settle for anyone less than the most brilliant, talented, and gorgeous bloke on the planet.”

Sherlock frowns. “Then what are you doing _here_?”

“I am _trying_ to get off on my birthday,” I snap, the words coming out of my mouth before I can stop them. Sherlock raises his eyebrows, his lips curling into a pleased smirk, and just like that, the tension melts.

“Ah, John,” he chuckles, smiling ruefully. “I've missed you.” I shiver appreciatively as he slides his hands up my back, fingers splayed against my shoulder blades, drawing me closer.

“I've missed you, too, Sherlock. So much.” It's important to me to seal this moment properly. I grip his shoulders gently, looking him in the eyes. “I know I made a mess of things recently. But please, don't ever doubt this. Us. Because I'm hopelessly – no, actually – I'm _hopefully_ in love with you. As I've always been. And if we made it this far, we can make it the rest of the way, can't we?”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “Hopefully in love? How maudlin.” He gives me a rare shy glance. “But I love you, too. And I never doubted we could make it. I was just afraid that you did.”

“I don't. I just get cagey.”

“The secret drama queen of Baker Street,” he murmurs, a twinkle in his eye.

“Shut it.” I glare at him in mock irritation.

“I agree, John,” he rumbles, his fingers digging into my back. “Less talk.”

I chuckle and run my hands down his chest, the silk of his shirt sticking to my sweaty palms. He looks so vulnerable, the way he's staring up at me. I can feel his heart hammering underneath my fingers. He tilts his chin slightly, beckoning me, and of course I'm there, drawing a sweet kiss from his mouth, relishing the rough chapped edges and silky curves of his lips, sealing my devotion without hesitation.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to my friend Luna, who is not in the fandom, but totally supports my geekiness. 
> 
> Hanging around with her, her loving wife, and her two sweet and smart-ass teenage sons allowed me to see what it might have been like to grow up in a queer, close-knit, and affectionate family. This, in turn, inspired me to write a fic that features Parentlock with a teenage Rosie.
> 
> Also, Luna supplied the line about being “hopefully in love.”
> 
> Thanks, Luna! xoxo.


End file.
